The Paint Washes Off
by you-idjits
Summary: "'Um,' he says. 'I'm Dean. Welcome to Physical Graffiti. Can I help you with something'" Or, the one where Dean is a tattoo artist and Cas is his customer, and they stumble over their words.


The guy walks into his tattoo shop half an hour before closing. Dean sits hunched over his desk, sketching out a new design for Sam, when he hears the bell over the door ring.

"Be with you in a second!" he hollers. No response, just quiet footsteps. He sighs, sets down his pencil, and goes out to the main room. A client at this hour is inconvenient, especially one without an appointment, but he'll have to deal with it.

Oh. It's a man, mid-twenties probably, with wild brown hair and wide blue eyes. The kind of face that tugs at Dean, sends heat to his cheeks.

"Um," he says. "I'm Dean. Welcome to Physical Graffiti. Can I help you with something?"

"I want a tattoo," the guy blurts. His voice is lower, rougher than Dean expected, and if he wasn't turned on already, he is now. Hot client blushes suddenly, lips pinching together. "I mean- well, obviously, why else would I be here-"

"What's your name?" Dean asks.

"Castiel. Cas."

"Cas." Dean smiles, winks before he can help himself. "Come on back, you can look through some of my designs. Unless you have one in mind?"

Castiel follows him into the back room, to Dean's workspace and the tattoo chair. He runs a finger over Dean's half-finished sketch. "You were working on this?"

"Yeah," Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck, "uh, it's for my brother. We design each other's tattoos, I dunno, it's a dumb thing we do."

"No, that's-" Cas pauses, traces the curve of the drawing. "It's thoughtful. This is lovely."

Dean rummages through his stacks of designs, looking for something that would fit this guy. He looks Cas up and down, takes in the paint-stained jeans and the Def Leppard t-shirt. Ratty tennis shoes. A few visible tattoos, on his wrists, peeking out from the collar of his shirt. Something laid-back, some kind of hippie thing maybe? He looks through his watercolor designs. While on his own body Dean only likes black ink, he loves working with the watercolor style on others.

He takes out a few books of designs and lets Cas leaf through. He keeps coming back to this one tattoo of wings, maybe unconsciously, but Dean catches on.

"You want that one?" Dean asks, flipping back to it.

Cas bites his lip, traces a feather. "No, that's- it'd take too many sessions, and I'm not sure I can afford it. I actually have a design in mind. Do you do lettering?"

"You want custom work?" Dean feels his face heating. "Jeez, I feel like an idiot. You should have said so; I wouldn't have subjected you to looking through all these old pieces."

Cas shakes his head. "No, I wanted to see them. They're good."

Dean rubs at the back of his neck. "Thanks, but they're just-"'

"Really." Cas lays a hand on his arm. "You have talent."

The intensity of his gaze is unnerving. Dean isn't supposed to get this flustered around customers. He takes a step back, looking pointedly at the wall over Cas's shoulder. "So, uh, lettering? Can I see?"

Dean takes the paper in Cas's outstretched hand, skims it. A few lines, nothing too elaborate, but in a script Dean doesn't recognize. "What is this?"

"Enochian," Castiel says, "the language of angels."

The words throw Dean for a moment. He blinks, traces over the unfamiliar characters. "It shouldn't take too long. Where do you want it?"

"On my ribs," Castiel says. "Here, near- near my hip."

"You'll have to take off your shirt." Dean guides him over to the chair, eases him into position. He draws up his own stool, lays out the design beside Castiel's thigh, and starts prepping his machine. It's distracting, with so much bare skin in front of him. Cas is nicely trim, the lean muscles of a runner.

"You're doing it freehand?" Castiel asks.

"Yeah," Dean says, "that okay? I have experience, I can show you some of my stuff if you like. You seemed kind of ready to jump in."

"No, that's fine, I just- I don't know a lot about tattoo practice."

"Yeah. You're an artist, right?"

Cas's eyes widen, just a touch. God, they're way too blue. "How did you know?"

"You're covered in paint, dude." Dean nods at a large blue splatter on the waistband of the jeans.

"Right. Of course. And you're a tattooist."

"Just another form of art. Permanent art, that's what I call it."

Castiel squints. "We all die one day, Dean. None of your tattoos are any more permanent than my paintings."

Dean laughs, leans back on his stool. "Okay, getting too philosophical for me."

"They're nice, though," Cas adds. "I didn't mean to insult- they're very artistic. And yours are designed by your brother?"

"Yeah, Sam." Dean looks at his arms, coiled with swaths of thick black ink, clean lines and shapes. "It's a family business."

He starts work on Cas's hip. "You got any brothers or sisters?"

"Seven," Cas says, teeth clenched against the pain.

"Seven?" Dean lets out a low whistle. "Wow, man. Seven's a lot."

"We aren't as close as you and Sam, though. It must be nice."

"It is," Dean agrees, and sinks back into silence. He knows the sound of a subject that doesn't want pushing.

Cas pushes it anyway. "I'm gay," he says. "My family doesn't-" He stops, mouth falling closed, unable to grapple with the rest of that sentence.

Dean stops, sets his left hand on Cas's knee. Meets Cas's eyes. "Hey, I get it. When I told my dad, he didn't-"

It's been ten years, _ten years_, and Dean finds that he can't finish that sentence either. They sit there for a minute in the suffocating silence of mutual understanding. But then the minute shatters, and Dean turns his focus back to the ink under his hands.

"You're – ah – very good at this," Cas says. His breathing is getting a little labored with the bite of the needle.

"So are you. You've gotten tattoos before?"

"A few." A beat of silence, a wince. "I suppose there was some truth to your comment about permanence. My own paint washes off."

Dean smiles, head ducked low. He feels Cas's eyes on his face for the following minutes.

There's something palpable in the air between them, a tension. He feels his own heartbeat rise, and he knows Cas is still looking at him. They make idle conversation, toeing the line of flirtation, as Dean finishes the tattoo.

He learns that Cas is in graduate school, getting a degree in business for his parents' sake. Art is just a very intense hobby of his. Though Dean's a few years older, he's remarkably less-educated. It's not like he really had the money for college, especially when Sam had Ivy-league aspirations.

Dean tries to explain this to Cas, but then he has to explain why Sam ended up working in the family business with Dean anyway. It's hard to explain your little brother's past drug addiction to a stranger in the tattoo chair. His tongue ties up in knots, and he pretends to focus on the tattoo instead.

"But you're happy, living like this," Cas says. There's a gentle note in his voice.

"Yeah," Dean says quietly, keeping his head bent low. "I mean, it's the dream. Making money doing what I love, creating art. And I don't have to worry about sales or galleries – my galleries are walking, talking people, you know?"

"It must be nice," says Cas softly.

"Being a walking, talking art gallery? Well, you're one of them now, buddy." Dean straightens, setting down his needle.

Cas's eyes snap back into focus. "Oh, it's done. Thank you." He tries to sit up but winces.

"Hey, wait, let me bandage you up first. You know the drill, right? Take off the bandage after four to six hours, rinse gently, yada yada yada." Dean smoothes the bandage over sensitive skin with the pads of his fingers.

"I believe I can handle it." Castiel works his shirt on carefully. Dean's eyes get foolishly caught on the muscles in his arms, and Cas notices.

"You, ah…" Cas says, eyes calculating.

Dean knows what he's thinking. He stumbles away, forcing himself to turn his back on Cas's words. "You want to pay out front?"

"Yes, thank you," Cas says, following him to the cash register.

Dean keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the numbers. "You should come back," he blurts, "and get those wings done. Reduced price, for a student." He purses his lips. He pretends he's not invested in Castiel's reaction.

"Can I have your card?"

"Yeah, um, yeah-" Dean fumbles around for a business card, "here it is. Let me just-" He scribbles his number on the back in green pen, before he can talk himself out of it.

"Thank you," Cas says. He notices the number – of course he does – and Dean thinks he sees a smile. "I'll, um, call ahead next time."

"Yeah," Dean says, "you should definitely call."

Cas walks out then, slinging his paint-stained jacket over his shoulder. He turns back to look from just outside the door, just for a moment, just for a smile.

_I am so screwed_, Dean thinks, knocking his head against the cash register.


End file.
